SOME PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF A LION.

I AM — that is to say I was — a great man; but I am neither the author
of Junius nor the man in the mask; for my name, I believe, is Robert Jones, and I was born somewhere in the city of Fum-Fudge.

The first action of my life was the taking hold of my nose with both hands. My mother saw this and called me a genius:
— my father wept for joy and presented me with a treatise on Nosology. This I mastered before I was breeched.

I now began to feel my way in the science, and soon came to understand that, provided a man had a nose sufficiently
conspicuous, he might, by merely following it, arrive at a Lionship. But my attention was not confined to theories alone. Every morning
I gave my proboscis a couple of pulls and swallowed a half dozen of drams.

When I came of age my father asked me, one day, if I would step with him into his study.

“My son,” said he, when we were seated, “what is the chief end of your existence?” [page 36:]

“My father,” I answered, “it is the study of Nosology.”

“And what, Robert,” he inquired, “is Nosology?”

“Sir,” I said, “it is the Science of Noses.”

“And can you tell me,” he demanded, “what is the meaning of a nose?”

“A nose, my father,” I replied, greatly softened, “has been variously defined by about a thousand
different authors.” [Here I pulled out my watch.] “It is now noon or thereabouts — we shall have time enough to get
through with them all before midnight. To commence then: — The nose, according to Bartholinus, is that protuberance — that
bump — that excrescence — that —”

“Will do, Robert,” interrupted the good old gentleman. “I am thunderstruck at the extent of your
information — I am positively — upon my soul.” [Here he closed his eyes and placed his hand upon his heart.]
“Come here!” [Here he took me by the arm.] “Your education may now be considered as finished — it is high time
you should scuffle for yourself — and you cannot do a better thing than merely follow your nose — so — so — so
— “ [Here he kicked me down stairs and out of the door.] — “so get out of my house, and God bless you!”

As I felt within me the divine afflatus, I considered this accident rather fortunate than otherwise. I resolved
to be guided by the paternal advice. I determined to follow my nose. I gave it a pull or two upon the spot, and wrote a pamphlet on
Nosology forthwith.

“Where can he be?” said little Miss Bas-Bleu. — But I paid these people no attention whatever —
I just stepped into the shop of an artist.

The Duchess of Bless-my-Soul was sitting for her portrait; the Marquis of So-and-So was holding the Duchess’
poodle; the Earl of This-and-That was flirting with her salts; and his Royal Highness of Touch-me-Not was leaning upon the back of her
chair.

“Has no copy been taken?” he demanded, surveying it through a microscope.

“None,” said I, turning it up.

“Admirable! “ he ejaculated, thrown quite off his guard by the beauty of the manœuvre.

“A thousand pounds,” said I.

“A thousand pounds?” said he.

“Precisely,” said I.

“A thousand pounds?” said he.

“Just so,” said I.

“You shall have them,” said he. “What a piece of virtu! “ So he drew me a check upon the
spot, and took a sketch of my nose. I engaged rooms in Jermyn street, and sent her Majesty the ninety-ninth edition of the
“Nosology,” with a portrait of the proboscis. — That sad little rake, the Prince of Wales, invited me to dinner.

We were all lions and recherchés.

There was a modern Platonist. He quoted Porphyry, Iamblicus, Plotinus, Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus Tyrius, and
Syrianus.

There was a human-perfectibility man. He quoted Turgot, Price, Priestly, Condorcet, De Stäel, and the
“Ambitious Student in Ill Health.”

There was Sir Positive Paradox. He observed that all fools were philosophers, and that all philosophers were fools.

There was Æstheticus Ethix. He spoke of fire, unity, and atoms; bi-part and pre-existent soul; affinity and
discord; primitive intelligence and homöomeria.

There was Theologos Theology. He talked of Eusebius and Arianus; heresy and the Council of Nice; Puseyism and
consubstantialism; Homousios and Homouioisios. [page 39:]

There was Fricassée from the Rocher de Cancale. He mentioned Muriton of red tongue; cauliflowers with
velouté sauce; veal à la St. Menehoult; marinade à la St. Florentin; and orange jellies
en mosäiques.

There was Bibulus O’Bumper. He touched upon Latour and Markbrünnen; upon Mousseux and Chambertin; upon
Richbourg and St. George; upon Haubrion, Leonville, and Medoc; upon Barac and Preignac; upon Grâve, and upon St. Peray. He shook
his head at Clos de Vougeot, and told, with his eyes shut, the difference between Sherry and Amontillado.

There was Signor Tintontintino from Florence. He discoursed of Cimababué [[Cimabue]], Arpino, Carpaccio, and
Argostino — of the gloom of Caravaggio, of the amenity of Albano, of the colors of Titian, of the frows of Rubens, and of the
waggeries of Jan Steen.

There was the President of the Fum-Fudge University. He was of opinion that the moon was called Bendis in Thrace,
Bubastis in Egypt, Dian in Rome, and Artemis in Greece.

There was a Grand Turk from Stamboul. He could not help thinking that the angels were horses, cocks, and bulls; that
somebody in the sixth heaven had seventy thousand heads; and that the earth was supported by a sky-blue cow with an incalculable number
of green horns.

There was Delphinus Polyglott. He told us what had become of the eighty-three lost tragedies of Æschylus; of the
fifty-four orations of Isæus; of the three hundred and ninety-one speeches of Lysias; of the hundred and eighty treatises of
Theophrastus; of the eighth book of the conic sections of Apollonius; of Pindar’s hymns and dithyrambics; and of the five and
forty tragedies of Homer Junior.

There was Ferdinand Fitz-Fossillus Feltspar. He [page 40:]
informed us all about internal fires and tertiary formations; about äeriforms, fluidiforms, and solidiforms; about quartz and marl;
about schist and schorl; about gypsum and trap; about talc and calc; about blende and horn-blende; about mica-slate and pudding-stone;
about cyanite and lepidolite; about hæmatite and tremolite; about antimony and calcedony; about manganese and whatever you please.

There was myself. I spoke of myself; — of myself, of myself, of myself; — of Nosology, of my pamphlet, and
of myself. I turned up my nose, and spoke of myself.

“Marvellous clever man!” said the Prince.

“Superb!” said his guests: — and next morning her Grace of Bless-my-Soul paid me a visit.

“Will you go to Almacks, pretty creature?” she said, tapping me under the chin.

“Upon honor,” said I.

“Nose and all?” she asked.

“As I live,” I replied.

“Here then is a card, my life. Shall I say you will be there?”

“Dear Duchess, with all my heart.”

“Pshaw, no! — but with all your nose?”

“Every bit of it, my love,” said I: — so I gave it a twist or two, and found myself at Almacks.

The rooms were crowded to suffocation.

“He is coming!” said somebody on the staircase.

“He is coming!” said somebody farther up.

“He is coming!” said somebody farther still.

“He is come!” exclaimed the Duchess. “He is come, the little love!” — and, seizing me
firmly by both hands, she kissed me thrice upon the nose.

This was not to be borne. I grew angry. I turned short upon Bluddennuff.

“Sir!” said I, “you are a baboon.”

“Sir,” he replied, after a pause, “Donner und Blitzen! “

This was all that could be desired. We exchanged cards. At Chalk-Farm, the next morning, I shot off his nose —
and then called upon my friends.

“Bête! “ said the first.

“Fool!” said the second.

“Dolt!” said the third.

“Ass!” said the fourth.

“Ninny!” said the fifth.

“Noodle!” said the sixth.

“Be off!” said the seventh.

At all this I felt mortified, and so called upon my father.

“Father,” I said, “what is the chief end of my existence?”

“My son,” he replied, “it is still the study of Nosology; but in shooting off the Elector’s
nose you have overshot your mark. You have a fine nose, it is true; but then Bluddennuff has none. You are damned, and he has become the
hero of the day. I grant you that in Fum-Fudge the greatness of a lion is in proportion to the size of his proboscis — but, good
heavens! there is no competing with a lion who has no proboscis at all.”